


Stop & Say You'll Be There

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [10]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Arguing, Domestic Violence, Episode s02e02: Proper Preparation and Planning, Episode s02e03: Over the Hill with the Swords of a Thousand Men, Hair Washing, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene, Porn with Feelings, Reconciliation Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26425744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: It’s so much more than the physical force when Butcher punches him. It’s an emotional blow; a betrayal of trust; it’s kicking him when he’s already down and telling him it’s his fault.-“Was that goodbye, before?” Hughie asks, swallowing down rising emotion and the lingering taste of his own blood. “Were you thinking about her?”-Hughie’s never felt desired like he does when he sees it in Butcher’s eyes, open and honest like he can never be out there, with the world forever working to come between them.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Series: Humanity [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448371
Comments: 35
Kudos: 333





	Stop & Say You'll Be There

**Author's Note:**

> I could not write a separate piece for episode 2. So here are the works for episodes 2 and 3 combined.

It’s so much more than the physical force when Butcher punches him. It’s an emotional blow; a betrayal of trust; it’s kicking him when he’s already down and telling him it’s his fault.

He feels so fucking angry, but Hughie’s had therapy and anger is how he tends to misinterpret deep, undeniable hurt.

He’s pretty sure there’s some actual anger in there, too. And once more, he’s left with no clue what the fuck to actually say to Butcher, who has reverted to his cultural roots and is pretending everything is fine with increasing aggression.

Hughie puts his headphones in and pretends he’s somewhere else, instead, as they drive, and drive.

Frenchie brings him diner food with a kind of apologetic grimace, and Hughie manages a nod in response, picks at it until his stomach aches too much to go on.

MM brusquely examines his swollen lip and tells him he’s fine. He seems immune to Hughie’s answering sullen glare.

They’re the ones who usher Hughie along when he considers not even going on this ridiculous mission Butcher has somehow planned through mysterious, never-fucking-questioned routes. Butcher’s gaze slides over him like he’s not even there, as he tells them about the boat, and the plan to deliver Kimiko’s brother to the CIA-

Hughie doesn’t even bother listening to the rest of it. Not like his input is wanted, anyway. He barely manages to wait until Butcher’s finished talking before putting his headphones back in and just reminding himself to take each next breath.

He knew that taking Vought down wouldn’t be easy.

But he never thought he’d be fighting against his own side, too.

-

“Alright. Out with it.” Butcher says, when they’re in the middle of loading up the fucking boat he procured from nowhere and the others are securing Kimiko’s brother. He leans against the chain-link marina fence, feigns nonchalance with an intensity that immediately grates. Like this is something they can just- talk through, and get over. Like he hasn’t taken several steps over the line and given Hughie the finger when he tried to tell him not to.

Hughie cycled through all of the appropriate emotions in the back of the van, listening to the same songs on repeat. Anger, despair, a dull and aching ambivalence. He thinks Butcher would have been able to handle any of those, if Hughie directed them at him.

Unfortunately, in that moment he’s just hurt, grieving the loss of more than even he thought he had. He’s thinking about the last time they were together, when they reunited and Butcher was so real, so open. And already knew so much more than he was willing to tell Hughie. “Was that goodbye, before?” Hughie asks, swallowing down rising emotion and the lingering taste of his own blood. “Were you thinking about her?”

Butcher looks immediately cornered, but Hughie’s not done. He’s held back his words for long enough, been unable to speak for longer. “Did you only- with me, because you thought she was dead? Why didn’t you just tell me? Us.” He corrects himself too late, sets his jaw in preparation for the response it’s likely to earn him.

But Butcher just refuses to meet his eyes, and sighs. Like none of the fucking responsibility for this comes back to him. “We’ve always had boundaries, Hughie. All through this.”

“Hitting me in the face is not a fucking boundary issue. I had just agreed to fucking help you. How the fuck am I supposed to trust you to have my back if you might just smack me on a whim?”

“I told you. You crossed a line.”

“Yeah, after! Then, you hadn’t fucking told me shit. All I saw was you lifting the fucking rifle to kill Kimiko’s brother. I didn’t know about Becca when I tried to stop you from straight-up murdering someone.”

“You still would have stopped me.”

“Because you made the wrong call!” Hughie asserts, with all the conviction he can muster. Somewhere in that thick fucking skill, he knows there’s a part of Butcher that’s capable of the love, respect and trust that make him human. That make Hughie feel this infuriatingly strongly about him, regardless of how he’s acting. He just wishes he knew how to get to them without Butcher having to have the idea first.

“You know what your problem is?” Hughie goes on, to Butcher’s expressively arched brow. “You think anybody who disagrees with you can’t possibly be trying to help you. Did you see that guy in the office? Kimiko did that. How well do you think you’ll be able to search for Becca when she’s torn your fucking head off?”

“So you’re saying you tackled me because you care.”

“I do everything because I care. Side effect of that vagina you mentioned, which by the way is outdated sexist and transphobic language, and I think you know that.”

“Sort of proving my point here, Hughie.”

Butcher gives nothing away. He doesn’t move, just holds tension, and he doesn’t express emotion in his voice. It just makes Hughie want to push him harder, to chip away at that façade because Butcher can be absolutely incredible. He can be a devoted husband, and a caring partner but he just fucking- doesn’t. Like none of it matters.

Hughie shakes his head, at Butcher or at both of them, he’s not really sure. “I know what you’re doing. It’s not gonna work. I care about you no matter how much of a dick you are. No matter how much I fucking shouldn’t, ‘cause I’d like to keep my dignity, and my pride, and all my fucking teeth. But this won’t make it any easier.”

Because he knows why Butcher punched him. All his life he’s been ignored, considered unimportant because he didn’t shout loud enough, and those days accustomed him to keeping quiet, observing rather than speaking up. But he’s already had the most negative reaction he could expect, from Butcher. He doesn’t care anymore.

He had thought venting it all would help, but now he just feels emptier than ever. MM’s coming back to get some of the gear out of the car.

So Hughie asks, because Butcher needs to come to his own conclusions, “Are you worried that I’ll want you to stay with me? Or that you’ll want to?” Hughie’s words are how he hits, better than any punch. “Or just that she won’t want you, when she sees what you’ve become?”

He goes to help carry, and Butcher stares at his retreating back without a word.

-

When it’s all over, Hughie’s first in the shower. Apparently almost being murdered by someone he loves affords him that right. He offered to let Kimiko go first, since her loss felt greater, but she just stared blankly at the wall and didn’t respond.

It’s a rusty, creaky piece of shit, the chemical shower, installed out of obligation rather than an aesthetic or functional choice. In the basement as they are, the concrete walls, floor and ceiling are unavoidably damp, the water barely draining from beneath his feet. MM cleans it, religiously, but all he’s achieved is a reduction in the black mould and a pervading scent of bleach. Hughie goes out of his way to avoid using this room, but this time the sink just won’t cut it.

He peels off his disgusting, bloody clothes and leaves them in a pile in the corner, in no way improving the scent and general atmosphere in the tiny room. He pulls the ragged curtain across, just about conceals himself from anyone who walks through the door, provided they don’t take a step in any direction. And then he staggers over to the shower, stands on the foot pedal, lets the water rain down on his head and watches what drains slowly fade from red to clear in flickering fluorescent light.

It’s becoming a disturbingly familiar sight. He barely even flinches now when he raises sudsy hands to his hair and encounters chunks of fatty gore.

There had been a moment. A long moment, he remembers, when he’d thought he’d never do this. That he’d never have a chance. That he was going to die, covered in-

Oh. No. two moments. One in the whale, when MM had saved him, had risked so much for his sake, to keep him moving, to make sure he was with them when he’d been ready to give up, worn down by it all.

And another. When Annie had done what was inarguably the right thing. Taken that burden on her shoulders so that she could continue the fight. He doesn’t begrudge her that. At the time, believing that he had nothing, wallowing in self-pity and ignoring the evidence- he had even thought he could be happy it was all over.

Except he survived. Every single lungful of air he breathes now is a gift, unexpected.

And Annie, beautiful and smart and amazing as she is, could have taken that from him.

He knows she didn’t have a choice. But just thinking about it makes the rift in his heart ache all over again.

They say you hurt the ones you love. Well, if that’s the barometer, Hughie must be the subject of some pretty intense admiration, and he must simply not give a shit in return.

His knuckles are a little swollen, but he doesn’t know if it was his laughably ineffectual attempt at punching Butcher that did it, or just the day’s worth of life-threatening experiences.

He feels terrible for it now. It wasn’t exactly justified violence, just the one way he felt like he could express everything that was roiling, bubbling up inside him. None of that remains, now. He’s sad, and he’s angry, and he’s regretful, but he never wants to do that again, to Butcher or anyone. It feels like he was defeated by himself. He just wanted to be able to lash out, and hurt Butcher, and know he’d still stay. Just like Hughie did.

He doesn’t want to cause any more pain. They were at least partly responsible for fifty-nine deaths and every one of them sits like a heavy weight on his chest. He doesn’t even know if that number includes the cops in the helicopter. Either way, all of those people would still be alive if it weren’t for them arriving with Kimiko’s brother in tow, attracting the myriad attentions of the Seven.

In a few days, or weeks, or months, Hughie will be able to rationalise that there was nothing he could have done, that taking any action to further good intentions is still better than standing by and watching terrible things happen unchallenged.

For now, he cries, where he can tell even himself that the wetness on his face is from the shower. The ragged catching of his breathing is just- natural emotion. It’s been a long day. He’s still picking whale innards out of his hair with trembling hands. He takes some small solace in the knowledge that it’s not exclusively him covered in gore, this time.

He’s just vaguely contemplating that he should free up the shower, working up a soapy lather in his hair when the door clicks open. The instinct is to hide behind the grimy curtain, but Hughie’s mind works faster than his body, so he knows there’s no point.

The curtain’s between him and the door, but Butcher hasn’t been in here before, doesn’t know that two steps will bring Hughie into full view.

He’s holding a towel and a change of clothes, the final stage in this process that Hughie entirely forgot about in his desire to just be clean, but Butcher glances up-

And then he blinks, grimaces, says, “Shit, sorry,” and turns his back.

That’s new. That’s- really weirdly meaningful. Suddenly very respectful. They haven’t talked -that hasn’t changed- but the whole way back and once they got here, sat on the couch, they’ve exchanged looks that have held fucking essays worth of emotions. Essentially what both of them haven’t said is, _“I know what you did, for me.”._

But this is the first acknowledgement that Butcher crossed a line, back there. That he can’t expect what they had to continue, without something changing between them.

Hughie knows that Butcher punching him in the face didn’t hold the same significance for each of them. Butcher lives his life shrouded in violence, and while it sounds like he’s gaslighting the fuck out of Hughie, it’s something that he basically didn’t consider as impactful as Hughie did.

Fuck, it really sounds terrible. It’s like Hughie’s justifying every domestic abuser ever, but as lame and unbelievable as it sounds- this is different. Butcher proved it, when Hughie’s life was at risk and Butcher saved him. Despite the cost.

This rocky part of their life isn’t over, isn’t ready to be dismissed, just yet. But Hughie wants to forgive, and Butcher wants to be forgiven. It’s a start.

The flow of water stops when Hughie steps away, and Butcher holds out the towel, still studiously facing the wall.

No. Hughie’s already forgiven him. He’s fucking hopeless, opening himself up to so much pain- but he’s certain, now, that every day is part of a countdown. Butcher will go back to his wife. He’s made that very, very clear. So Hughie’s going to make the most of every moment he can unreasonably, self-destructively pretend Butcher is his.

And he’s going to say thank you, for what Butcher sacrificed in order to save him. Becca is the only possible endgame. But, as always, Hughie and Butcher have something to offer each other that they just can’t get elsewhere, for now.

So Hughie takes that towel, and he flings it into the furthest corner of the room, reaches for the front of Butcher’s shirt and pulls him gently, firmly, to within range of the shower. He takes the folded clothes, throws them, too.

He’s being eyed suspiciously at this point, but he knows, now, when he’s about to get punched. He’s not scared.

Butcher’s shirt is beyond saving, his pants not much better. His boots will dry. So Hughie lathers up soap in his hands, steps on the foot pedal to bring water down on both them, and then reaches up to run his fingers through Butcher’s hair.

The disgruntled sound that the spray of water earns him shifts downwards, into a low groan as he works his way through matted blood and unidentifiable viscera.

It’s not overly warm, the water falling mostly between them but Hughie massages Butchers scalp, easing his way through the clumped hair, teasing it back into just the regular level of tangled mess. And, so slowly, Butcher slides a hand around his side, eases it against the small of his back and urges him closer. It could be arousing, sure, but it’s also gentle, anticipatory. Exactly what they both need. Hughie’s in no hurry, works with patience, focusing all his attention on just this one thing.

They’re so close together, his cock just barely hardening against soaked denim, Butcher’s breath against his throat. Everything clings in water, the caress of Butcher’s thumb stuttering over his skin, making him shiver. In increments, Butcher relaxes against him, the rasp of his beard against Hughie’s shoulder a familiar helpless comfort.

It’s so quiet that he almost doesn’t hear it when Butcher noses at his cheek, murmurs in his ear, “I’m sorry.”

It shouldn’t knock the wind out of him, shouldn’t feel like a heart-warming, soul-lifting triumph, but it does.

And Hughie shouldn’t lean back enough to give Butcher a small but sincere smile and say, “I know.”

But he does. He lathers up more suds, and he see Butcher sag with relief, like there’s a weight off his shoulders, and he backtracks a little, because- “But- you can’t do that, Butcher. You just can’t. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation-”

“I know. I said-” Butcher’s already falling back, raising his voice and his hackles, but then he stops. Breathes. Looks Hughie in the goddamn eyes and says, “I know. I’m sorry.”

It’s not a guarantee it won’t happen again. But maybe Butcher knows Hughie couldn’t find a way to believing him, even if he did. At least Butcher’s not lying. Maybe this is good.

It certainly feels good, the way Butcher relaxes in Hughie’s arms, closes his eyes to protect against dripping soap as Hughie dedicates more time and attention to his hair, scratches at his scalp, more comforting than cleaning. But also cleaning. Because there is a lot of blood, and it has been there for a while.

“I’m sorry,” Butcher says once more, and when he reaches out to cradle Hughie’s cheek, to thumb at his bottom lip where that same hand broke the skin, there’s so much regret thrumming through him that Hughie can do nothing but accept it.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Hughie, you did nothing wrong. It was me. I was a real cunt.”

On any other day, Hughie might make a joke about getting that on tape. But he can see, and hear, and feel that Butcher is really trying. He’s terrible at it but he’s trying. Hughie has no idea what the fuck finally got through to him, but- he’s grateful. Not just for what Butcher’s saying now, but what he did, before. Stepping in to save him, releasing Kimiko’s brother in order to do it, when Butcher had to know that he would run. That he would be practically impossible to catch.

So he reaches out, caresses that gorgeous face with his fingertips until every trace of crusted blood is gone. He follows the lines in a creased brow, the arch of a strong nose, strokes delicately at earlobes and rasps through Butcher’s beard to find the shape of his jaw.

And then he says, like he’s been thinking since it happened, half-convinced it was all some sort of mistake, or a trick. Some impossibility after all that happened between them. “You said you’d choose me. And you did.”

He sees Butcher’s eyes widen with the realisation that Hughie knows, couldn’t possibly have missed that he gave up his single chance to find Becca in defence of Hughie’s life. Had he really thought that the significance would go unnoticed? That Hughie wouldn’t see the truth, when he’d so frankly asked about it before?

Had he thought it would count for nothing in the face of what he’d already done? That Hughie wouldn’t forgive him anything, stupid and naïve and hopeful as he is, given even the slightest hint of a chance?

Does he think that Hughie would even hesitate to let him go? That he cares so little that he might insist on keeping him?

Hughie knows that he’s just borrowing him. That Butcher will go back to Becca. That all this effort, Butcher really trying to be a better person, is all for her.

But he lost someone he loved before, and he wouldn’t give up a single moment they shared for the world. He’s not going to do it now, either. For as long as he’s allowed.

Butcher thumbs at the soft spot behind Hughie’s ear, at a smudge of blood he missed or just to touch him, and when the motion makes him naturally cradle the nape of Hughie’s neck, they meet in the middle.

Hughie briefly entertained thoughts of never kissing this man again.

Now, he knows he’ll continue to do it, every fucking chance he gets. They’ll find Becca, because Butcher always gets what he wants, and he’s got Hughie to help him. Until then, he will learn the shape of Butcher’s mouth by heart, kiss him ‘til he’s breathless, fumble at the buttons of his shirt to get as close to him as physically possible. It’ll hurt, but that’s a problem for Future Hughie.

Right now, there are steady hands on him, holding him, Butcher’s lips on his, warm breath on his face, soft hair threaded through his fingers. Water intermittently rains down on them depending on whether Hughie remembers to stand on the pedal or not with the inexorable pull of his body into Butcher’s arms.

“Fuck,” he mutters, the third time they’re left just making out in a damp room, and Butcher huffs a laugh into his mouth, kicks off his waterlogged boots and shunts one of them onto the pedal. All with an arm looped around Hughie’s waist, with clumsy, uncoordinated kisses and with his other hand working at the buttons of his ruined shirt.

Something’s changed between them, Hughie knows. This thing was at first pointedly casual, then intimately aggressive, always isolated in the moments they shared, never to leak into their everyday lives. But they’ve had problems; they’ve forced the others to intervene; they’ve done things that should never occur between people who so dramatically care about one another.

Butcher’s done things no partner should do, has threatened him, abandoned him, physically hurt him. But he couldn’t let him die, even at their worst moment and Hughie has to believe that counts for something.

He just knows he’s never felt less like a victim in his life.

“I’m sorry,” Butcher murmurs again, only barely over the sound of the water, urging their kiss darker and deeper, like an apology in itself for the moment it takes him to peel his sodden shirt off and let it slap to the floor, the necessity of relinquishing his touch on Hughie’s skin.

Hughie wants to say he knows, to accept and acknowledge it, to lessen Butcher’s suffering- but he knows this will stop, when they go out there. Outside of this room, Butcher may never say it again, so Hughie’s going to take it while it lasts.

Between them, with a fluid and gentle cooperation Hughie hadn’t been sure they were capable of, they get Butcher’s jeans off too, peel them down and kick them aside along with his boxer briefs so they can press together again, top to bottom, bodies aligned, supporting each other where they might ordinarily have fallen.

It’s an apt metaphor.

Hughie doesn’t give a fuck as long as Butcher keeps touching him. He’s not even feeling the usual quick drive towards completion, just a static buzz that sends pleasure dripping steadily down his spine from everywhere their skin meets. The water makes their touches judder, more friction that wraps around Hughie and insists every moment of pain, every struggle, the haunting sense of despair was worth this.

Butcher’s not even pushing it, isn’t urging Hughie on like there’s a time limit on his ability to express feelings. He’s kept Hughie waiting before, but always had the endgame in sight, likes to torture and tease when he already has Hughie hard and desperate.

That is sounding increasingly good, as they go on, not that Hughie can stand the possibility of their no longer kissing. That, he wants, the heartfelt slide of his tongue against Butcher’s, the taste of soft, swollen lips capable of uttering such harshly-worded cruelty but in that moment dedicated only to his pleasure. He wants more, in every direction, all at once, and he can’t express it in anything but the tighter clutch of his fingers in Butcher’s hair, a soft moan in the back of his throat and the arch of his back that brings him more in line with the shape of Butcher’s body.

“Shouldn’t even be allowed to touch you. I hurt you. Know you’re not like me-“ But the wild, devouring kisses that punctuate Butcher’s words express his true belief, his gratitude and appreciation, the intensity of his affection.

Even now, Hughie hesitates to attribute a more significant emotion to it than that. Butcher cares about him, wants him, knows him-

But they are not star-crossed lovers in a fated encounter. They’re two murderers too selfish to go it alone, who thrive while surrounded by the kind of death, drama and pain anyone else would shrink away from. They have lost parts of their souls to the ones they love and fully intend to do it all over again. And he is at best a placeholder.

Hughie has never met anyone whose emotions are so closely tied to his own, who with a word or a simple gesture can take him from euphoria to rock bottom or back again.

This isn’t healthy but it’s sure as fuck what’s keeping him alive. He’ll breathe through the worst kind of pain to exist in a world where Butcher is fighting with him.

Or, preferably at that moment, making him come with that violent intensity Hughie increasingly craves. He’s beginning to shiver with cold rather than pleasure, goose bumps rising on his skin from the tepid water, but Butcher’s rumbling groan, the heated application of his mouth to Hughie’s throat, biting, sucking kisses while he catches his breath- they warm him from the inside.

He’s vaguely aware of Butcher reaching for the soap; much, much more aware of a strong, sudsy hand wrapping around his cock to make him groan, loud and unrestrained.

Butcher hushes him, but his accompanying laugh is indulgent, and he grips tight, strokes and twists, and Hughie has no choice but to go where he leads. His hips hitch as his cock collides with Butcher’s, as that hand wraps around them both, as Butcher’s mouth finds his in a clumsy, breathless attempt at a kiss.

Hughie feels like they can’t get close enough, but the thought of fumbling through the necessary preparations for penetration in this concrete-walled room right now is just too much to bear. He just wants the two of them together, wraps an arm around Butcher’s shoulders and his other hand around Butcher’s own to give him something to focus on, to keep him from getting overwhelmed. He can’t bring himself to be selfish, or maybe he is, for wanting to bask in Butcher’s pleasure as much as his own.

Neither of them has the coordination for truly kissing anymore but Butcher is the one who slows their attempts, smiles at Hughie’s whined objection, takes an excruciatingly gentle hold of his jaw, barely touching him, more framing his chin as he only suggests Hughie stay still.

For the first time, Hughie feels like he could wrest control back with his physical strength. That his power doesn’t rely on Butcher allowing him it.

And yet- Butcher is requesting so delicately that Hughie remains still, even as his brow creases with Butcher’s unceasing stroke of their cocks, even though his eyes fill with helpless tears because Butcher is staring into his very soul, memorising every single twist of his features with his steady ratcheting arousal, only heightened by how exposed and vulnerable Butcher can still so easily make him.

Hughie’s never felt desired like he does when he sees it in Butcher’s eyes, open and honest like he can never be out there, with the world forever working to come between them.

“Butcher-“ he says, ragged and breathless, like that single word can ever come close to expressing all he feels for this man, all he wants from him, everything he’s grateful to have received.

“I know, Hughie. We’ll figure it out, come on. Let me see you.”

Hughie’s trembling, his hands barely finding purchase on Butcher’s back as he fights to remain upright. His mind’s a mess and he’s just achingly hard in Butcher’s grasp, so close to coming that everything hurts. It’s not quite building how it should, plateauing at an invisible barrier that keeps him from tumbling over that edge. His expression creases in genuine pain and Butcher slows, just holding him, a strong hand wrapped around both their cocks, keeping Hughie’s pressed against his own.

He must be close, too, Hughie realises, and feels like he should have done more; he let go without even realising it but when he goes to lower his hand, to get that rhythm back, to try and overwhelm his thoughts with sensation, Butcher stops him.

“Look at me, Hughie,” he urges, low, and Hughie does as he’s told, although his gaze flickers down when Butcher tangles their fingers together, holds his hand.

That’s- sweet. Hughie squeezes experimentally, and Butcher’s thumb strokes back and forth across his skin.

“Hughie,” Butcher says again, just as gently, his eyes deep and dark, his voice soft. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Hughie breathes, as it loosens the clutch of the vice wrapped around his traitorous heart. He hadn’t even realised, had grown so used to it that he hadn’t even thought he might still be holding onto the bitterness, the resentment, the- lack of trust.

“I know,” he says back, but it’s weak and thready. Too poor a lie to convince anyone, unless they wanted to be convinced. Like Butcher was, before.

“You don’t know. If you trusted me, like you did, I could have had you on your knees and fucked you halfway across the floor and you wouldn’t even have tried to stop me.”

Hughie has no idea how that could possibly be true, now, how he had the kind of absolute faith and devotion that would allow him to submit like that. But Butcher’s right. He would have done it. Easily. Wouldn’t have thought twice.

“I think I put you on a pedestal,” he confesses, even as he pushes, just a little, into Butcher’s grip. This is- cathartic, a different kind of satisfying vulnerability that puts him on edge, makes him crave completion in more ways than one.

“You trusted me. Because I told you that you could. Because I lied to you, when you were damaged and broken. Even though that’s what someone did to me. I should have known better, Hughie. I red-misted and all I could see was my chance, slipping away. And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, but I did. I’m sorry.”

God help him, Hughie believes him. Even though that’s exactly the same mistake that got him into this mess in the first place. Even though Butcher knows that too and could take full advantage.

“I know,” he says, with a little more certainty but a strangled whine for his once-again building arousal, Butcher’s hand moving patient and slow. Hughie almost wants to see how long he can drag this out, wants to hear more of these apologetic words while he still can. The friction wrapped around his cock feels realer now, more a part of him, is quickening his breathing and sensitising every inch of his skin.

He’s a mess, and still Butcher gazes at him with that soft look in his eyes, like he can’t believe how lucky he is, like Hughie should have told him to stop or never even start. It’s just- not quite enough. “Butcher-“

“You’re right. I’m terrified she’ll hate me for what I am now. I felt like you brought out the worst in me, but- you’re just the only one brave enough to call me on it. Don’t ever stop, Hughie. Ill fight you, and I’ll say horrible fucking things, and I’ll try to resist, but- I need you.”

It’s so much more than Hughie hoped for, maybe even more than he can take, and frankly he’s not sure at first whether it’s the constriction of his heart or his cock that overwhelms him, has him sagging and falling into Butcher’s arms, panting against a strong shoulder as he comes between them, long, hard and utterly exhausting.

Butcher’s gentle, murmured, “I got you, Hughie,” coaxes a final, shuddering spurt from him, and then he’s done, capitalising on that vow, relying on Butcher to hold him up even as he smothers a groan with an open-mouthed kiss against Hughie’s throat and comes too, shuddering violently but holding them both up all the same, strong and supportive.

Hughie laughs, helplessly euphoric, and he feels Butcher smile against his skin, wrap both arms around him and smear come between them, making Hughie grunt with the overstimulation of his softening cock.

Strangely, it’s the most intimate thing they’ve ever done, vaguely mutual handjobs in a tiny windowless room.

It’s a little while before either of them regains their voice, just embracing as they are under the spray, sharing what little heat remains, Butcher’s palm sliding up and down Hughie’s spine, calming and soothing him.

And, Hughie doesn’t realise at first, helping Butcher to gather his will.

To tell him- “MM says you’re my canary.”

“What?”

“You know. Like in a coal mine.”

Hughie tenses. Breathes faster. Butcher has to feel both of those things, to know what he’s done, what he’s saying- “Expendable?”

It’s- weirdly reassuring to feel and to recognise the full-body movement involved in Butcher expansively rolling his eyes. So when he leans back, reaches up with both hands to cradle Hughie’s face, encourages yet more eye contact with an impossible, unrepeatable tenderness, Hughie lets him. He’s got that ache in his chest again, the one that’s changed reasons so many times but hardly seems to stop hurting, around this man.

“Life-saving,” Butcher corrects him, with a soft smile, and Hughie squeezes his eyes shut against all that threatens to escape him, the tears and the words and the anguished screaming.

It’s no surprise, that after all this time Butcher knows him, but has no clue how to deal with him. But Hughie knows Butcher too, knows he’s disappointed in himself at that moment, because he meant something truly good and it all came out wrong, as usual. Because it just confirmed that Hughie is as precious to him as he is to Hughie-

And it doesn’t change a fucking thing.

Without opening his eyes, Hughie shakes his head, allows his expression to crumple, stops bothering to hold back the tears. This is all too much. Coming was supposed to clear his head, but he just feels with a more violent, painful intensity than ever. “I hate that you do this to me.”

He’s gathered into Butcher’s arms, held close as he shakes apart, a kiss pressed to the top of his head with the shameful words, “I know.”

-

Butcher’s on the couch when Hughie emerges from his room, both of them in fresh, clean clothes. All the evidence washed away, along with some of the walls that have built up between them. Enough, at least, to allow Hughie to take a seat next to him, despite his complete lack of interest in what’s actually on the screen.

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, and Butcher frowns at him but doesn’t veer into the intense alarm that usually comes with the discussion of emotions in public, so Hughie fidgets, and avoids eye contact, and forces himself to get it out before he can be told it isn’t necessary. “For punching you. Know I didn’t exactly do a great job of it, but- I’m still sorry.”

The disparaging comment helps reduce the impact a bit. Butcher snorts, shrugs, half-smiles. “You’re a lover, not a fighter, Hughie. And I’m grateful.” They share a brief, conciliatory look, and then he adds, “Sorry Homelander tried to get your girlfriend to kill you.”

“Yeah. He’s a real prick.” But Hughie’s smiling too, just a little, and Butcher’s watching him like this might be a moment he actually wants to remember. They don’t get a lot of those.

They watch a few minutes of some complete trash Hughie’s not even really keeping track of, too busy trying to sort through what’s in his head.

And then Butcher lifts his arm and rests it along the back of the couch, right behind Hughie’s head. With a bit more space between them, Hughie feels able to shift towards him a little, and somehow through that ridiculous, mutually incremental process, they get to Butcher leaning against the corner of the couch, that arm along the back, other hand cradling Hughie’s jaw, drawing him in for a kiss like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s warm and soft and real, not tucked away in the shadows like most of what they do together, Hughie feeling like his heart might beat back into life with Butcher’s genuine sentiment, with his own acceptance of their many and varied imperfections. It feels implausibly good to just be there with him, no destination, just simple pleasure, affection, a way to express the overflow of emotions they seem to constantly cause each other.

“Oh, this is almost worse,” MM laments, and Butcher lifts a hand from his caress of Hughie’s cheek to give him the finger. But he doesn’t stop, pushes for a final few brief moments of their kiss before settling back into his seat, a pleased smile on his face while Hughie attempts futilely to hide, somehow, trying not to feel embarrassed by his own capacity for forgiveness.

Hughie disagrees that it’s worse, anyway. Right now, with Butcher against his side, his arm still slung casually around where Hughie sits, it all feels pretty good to him.


End file.
